


Green

by jellijeans



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: I AM SO SOFT FOR ALFION YOU HAVE NO IDEA, M/M, alfyn and therion are my sunshine idiot and depressed edgelord and i would die for them, also spoiler warning for therion and alfyn's chapter 3s!, also this fic was highkey inspired by tuna's drawings...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 12:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellijeans/pseuds/jellijeans
Summary: And Therion loves him. Oh, he loved them both, trailed around Darius like a sick puppy begging for any scrap of attention it can get in its last days—and really, isn’t that what he is?—and he supposes that was love, in some twisted, demented way, but oh, he loves Alfyn. Loves the way his hair curls, loves the ever-present stubble on his chin, loves his backwoods mannerisms and the twang to his voice.Loves the feeling of apothecary hands brushing against him as he patches every wound, murmuring sweet nothings of painlessness in both head and heart, and loves the promise of one day being free from everything that ails him, loves the concept of being healed.Green flatters him.





	Green

**Author's Note:**

> spoiler warning for therion and alfyn's chapter threes!!
> 
> this fic, aka two gay boys crying

They both wear green.

 

Alfyn, his jacket, the open overshirt thrown over his tunic; Darius, the shawl, the same mantle he himself wore, just in a different color.

 

They both have the same scar.

 

Miguel, traced over his eye, just out in broad daylight; Therion, also traced over his eye, hidden behind a waterfall of white hair and a world of troubles.

 

And Therion loves him. Oh, he loved them both, trailed around Darius like a sick puppy begging for any scrap of attention it can get in its last days—and really, isn’t that what he is?—and he supposes that was love, in some twisted, demented way, but oh, he  _ loves _ Alfyn. Loves the way his hair curls, loves the ever-present stubble on his chin, loves his backwoods mannerisms and the twang to his voice.

Loves the feeling of apothecary hands brushing against him as he patches every wound, murmuring sweet nothings of painlessness in both head and heart, and loves the promise of one day being free from everything that ails him, loves the concept of being healed.

Green flatters him.

 

(and green flattered Miguel, too, sickly olive against sickly olive, and when Therion wakes up and sees a green clothed figure working something diligently in the palms of his hands he rushes to the bathroom and vomits, clearing green from inside himself and only relaxing when those same apothecary hands rub soothing circles on his back, brush over scars without asking or mocking or telling, and hold a miracle cure to his lips, promising better nights after better days.

 

And for the medicine man, green suits him.)

 

After everything with Miguel, Therion loves Alfyn, but he swears on his life that Alfyn would not, could not love him back. Not after all of that, not after the betrayal at the hands of yet another thief—and really, aren’t they all the same? A thief is a thief is a thief, and Therion can feel Alfyn’s anger as he patches his wounds—at the world, at Miguel, and at himself, and it stings.

 

After Miguel, he sees green as that sickening olive again for the first time in so long—green, the color of disgust—and takes it upon himself to tear himself away from Alfyn.

It’s the same scar, after all.

 

(In the back of his head, he feels one of Miguel’s hands tight against his jaw and the other curled around a dagger slowly slicing against his ribs, and he remembers what the other thief had said—

“You’re really attached to that fool, aren’t you? Alfyn, that is? Oh, he’s attached to ya, too. Loves ya even, maybe. But then, what will he think of ya after this? The same scar, right? The burden we all bear.  _ You will only ever remind him of me. _ ”

He hadn’t been able to finish before Primrose had slit his jugular with a particularly well-done throw, and Alfyn had rushed over to make sure Miguel hadn’t hurt him, and he had tried to turn way when Alfyn had brushed his hair out of his eyes to check the left side of his face, but he hadn’t turned fast enough, and Alfyn saw.

That same scar.

And he saw the look that had fleeted over Alfyn’s face—only for a nanosecond, but he saw it—and he knew the last thing Miguel was going to say.

“He’ll never love you once he knows the truth.”)

 

“Therion,” he hears someone say, and he feels a hand drift over his back. For a second, he’s afraid it’s Alfyn, there to abandon him the same way Darius did, except this time, he deserves it, and this time, maybe he really will just die, and maybe—

“ _ Therion _ . It’s Primrose. You’re okay.”

Therion exhales. “Hey.” He watches as Primrose takes a seat across from him, folding herself ornately across the worn-down loveseat, pulling her skirt over her, and takes a sweeping look around the room the innkeep provided them with before returning her gaze to Therion.

“Hey.” She pauses and swallows, and Therion knows she’s here for more than just a meet and greet; out of everyone in the group, he and Primrose know each other better than they know anyone else, but that familiarity has its downsides. They’re not willing to hide anything from each other, and it’s not like the other would let them. They know each other too well for that.

Primrose clears her throat. “You should talk to him. He’s worried about you.”

“I’d rather not,” Therion responds, and he hates how he can’t even will himself to sound bitter—he’s just  _ sad _ . “He’ll just get more worried if he sees it.”

“The scar?”

“The scar, yeah.” His eyes fall from Primrose’s face to the table, and he wrings his hands nervously beneath his cloak. The scar reminds him of Miguel, who reminds him of Darius, who reminds him of the cliff, which reminds him of Alfyn.

(Green.)

“The only thing he wishes is that he could have fixed you, Therion.”

“I can’t be fixed—”

“But you know damn well he would try,” Primrose counters, and Therion shuts his mouth. Satisfied with his silence, she twists an auburn wave of hair around her finger as she continues. “That man would spend the rest of his life armed with every poultice he could cook up trying to help you if you only just asked. What I wouldn’t give for something like that,” she adds with a dry laugh, and Therion raises his eyebrows.

“It seems to me you have more than one option for that—”

“Shut up.”

“Fine, fine.” Therion sits back, examining the back of his hand, still pressed flat against the table between their chairs. “I just don’t want to hurt him.”

“”He’s an apothecary,” Primrose responds, standing up. She stretches. “Making things better is what he does.”

With that, she leaves, and Therion watches the crimson of her skirt glitter against the blackened floor as she shuts the door behind her.

 

His hand drifts over the tight indent of his scar, and he wonders if Alfyn could do the same thing and feel anything in his heart except betrayal.

 

He glances out the window and sees the blanket of twilight finally starting to spread over the sky; the other three men will be retreating back to the inn soon, then, which means he can either face Alfyn or spend another night in silence—

—another night on his own.

(And really, he just wants one night safe in Alfyn’s arms, surrounded by warmth and the scent of fresh flowers and the promise that nothing will hurt him ever again.)

 

He hears Olberic’s footsteps first—loud and heavy, and accompanied by the clanking of swords and armor, followed by Cyrus’—ever light and dainty—and then Alfyn’s, also heavy, but accompanied by the faint, ever-present floral scent of herbs and tinctures.

 

Therion’s never really had a home to return to, and certainly not one long enough to be able to pick out the scent of it, but if he did, he imagines it would have smelled something like that.

 

“Any luck?” Therion asks upon hearing the door open. Olberic exhales.

“No, none. It is a wry beast; we will try again tomorrow. H’aanit has returned to her quarters as well.” Olberic places his things beside the door, carefully positioning his weapons so as not to scratch anything. Cyrus skirts around the weapons as he enters and, in true Alfyn fashion, the apothecary proceeds to bump into them and knock them all over as he steps in, cursing and sputtering out a “shucks, sorry!” before setting them back up. Olberic claps a hand to his forehead and sighs before lumbering over to the loveseat Primrose had been sitting in just a half hour before.

Alfyn turn, exhaling, before meeting eyes with Therion, and the thief knows it’s too late to slip away. He’s caught, and he doesn’t like it.

“Oh, Therion! You’re back!” Alfyn gives him that bright, sunshiney smile, and Therion doesn’t even notice the way Cyrus and Olberic exchange a look as they slip back out of the room, only feels his face heating up as his eyes drift towards Alfyn’s lips, still curved into that ever-present crescent curve.

“Y-yeah,” he responds, tearing his gaze down to his hands, which fiddle anxiously. “It’s not like I ever really left.”

“I disagree, but okay,” Alfyn responds, plopping down on the floor beside him. He rests his arms on the coffee table and then stacks his chin on top, and Therion wonders why he doesn’t just use the loveseat. “You could kinda tell you weren’t really here,” he adds, “what with your mind wanderin’ and all. A fellah like you isn’t really one to just escape a room every time a friend walks in.”

“That’s what thieves do,” Therion says, shutting his eyes. “We enter and we leave just like we came in—just with a couple more things in our pockets, that’s all.”

“You ain’t just a common thief, though,” Alfyn says, and when Therion doesn’t respond, he closes his mouth, pausing, and half of Therion wishes that Alfyn would leave—the other half so, so desperately wants him to stay, stay forever and never let go. Alfyn exhales. “You can tell me what’s wrong, you know.”

That’s what gets Therion to open his eyes. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m sayin’ you’re not as invincible as you keep insistin’ you are, and I want to help you,” Alfyn says, turning to him. Therion looks away, and he sighs. “You just won’t let me in.”

“Alfyn—”

“I’m not askin’ for you to tell me whatever bull tragic backstory you thieves all seem to have, I’m just askin’ you to let me in. To let me be there for you, that’s all.”

“DId you not learn anything from Miguel?” Therion asks, and he shuts his eyes before he can see Alfyn’s reaction, immediately regretting even considering the thought. Still, he doesn’t stop. “How can you keep your heart so...so open? We’re all thieves, Alfyn—”

“Therion, please don’t say that—”

“—there’s nothing that makes me any different than him! We’re one and the same!”

“Therion, please—”

“I’m not worth saving either, Alfyn!”

 

And just like that, the words slip out, and the tears are quick to follow. He opens his eyes, red and stinging, and meets Alfyn’s, whose jaw is slightly agape, eyes shining with heartache. Therion exhales a shaky breath, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Therion...”

“I’m not,” he says. “...I’m not.” Darius knew that, too, and that’s maybe the worst part. “I’m no different than Miguel, just a different object to steal. We’re one and the same, and I wouldn’t blame you if you left me behind.”

“Don’t ever say that,” Alfyn says, getting up, and Therion is ready to watch it happen—to watch him leave, the same way he knew he would, the same way Darius did, because he really  _ is _ the same as Miguel and  _ gods _ he’s so  _ stupid _ —

“Don’t every say that,” he repeats, but this time, his voice is barely a whisper, and Therion opens his eyes to see Alfyn’s arms around him, his eyes glazed with tears. “You are...you are so much more than that, Therion, and please don’t ever go reducin’ yourself to the likes of him because you can’t see the good within yourself.”

“A-Alfyn...?”  
“And it hurts for me to see you like this, it really does, because I—” Alfyn bites his lip and swallows his words, and Therion doesn’t miss it. “—and I know someone hurt you, I do, because that’s how hurt people act and I know it was someone close to you, because you’ve made it so tbat the way you avoid getting hurt is to never trust anyone again, and gods, I wish I could change that.” And suddenly Alfyn’s hands are shaking, and the tears are falling, and Therion cna see he’s really sobbing. “I’m sure someone else might’ve told you this, but I’d fix you in a heartbeat if I could, I really would, and I don’t need you to tell me what’s wrong, but—but I want you to know I”m here for you, damn it, and...and...”

“Alfyn, I’m sorry...”

“—and I love you, and I’m not goin’ to sit around and watch you implode all on your own.” Alfyn says it with such convinction that Therion almost wants to run, but he doesn’t—he stays in place and lets himself finally melt into the warmth he’s being offered for the first time in his life.

 

It takes him a split second to realize exactly what Alfyn had said.

 

“W-wait, Alfyn—”

“I know what I said,” Alfyn says, and he takes his arms off of Therion’s, crossing them back in front of his torso. Therion almost misses the warmth. “And you don’t have to love me back. I’m not expectin’ that, nor am I under the impression you’d open yourself up to some random backwoods fellah that quickly. And if you tell me to go, I will, but i wanted to let you know you’re not alone. The rest of us...we might not understand, but we’ll be damned if we don’t try.”

 

(and for a moment, the olive fades into pastel, soft and light and pleasant, and Alfyn loves him—

—and then, it collapses.)

 

“I’m sorry,” Therion whispers, and this time the tears  _ actually _ come, hot and fat and ugly and he leans over and buries his face in his hands, and as soon as they were gone, Alfyn’s arms are back around him, one hand rubbing circles into Therion’s back and the other pulling him tight. Therion rests his head against Alfyn’s chest, the fabric of his shirt—

—green—

—brushing softly against Therion’s cheek, the ever-present heat of his skin muffled but pleasant, oh so pleasant against the side of Therion’s face.

“Hey, hey...you’re alright,” Alfyn murmurs, shing his still hand up to the nape of Therion’s neck, gently tensing his fingers and massaging against it, and Therion relaxes against him, slumped against his chest. “You’re okay. You have nothin’ to apologize for—you didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m not gonna hurt you. No one here is gonna hurt you.”

“I’m sorry—I—it’s just—Darius,” Therion whispers, shaking slightly, and Alfyn doesn’t say anything, just closes his eyes and nods, and Therion lets out another quiet sob. “...why are you still here?”

“I told you before,” the apothecary responds simply, and Therion shakes his head.

“I don’t understand why—why you don’t just leave,” he whispers. “Everyone leaves. Darius left. They take and then they leave, but you—you just give and give and give, and I don’t understand why,” the thief continues, and he sits back to look Alfyn in the eyes, Alfyn’s hands tracing down his arms until they rest on the top of his hands. “...why?”

“It hurts my heart to hear you say that, Therion, and I wish—I wish you didn’t learn...learn life like that,” Alfyn murmurs, turning over one of Therion’s hands in his. “I stay because I care, and I give because that’s just what I do. It’s why I’m an apothecary. I don’t have any great tale for revenge or understanding like Prim or Olberic do—someone gave to me, and now I want to give back, that’s all.”

“I don’t understand you,” Therion says, and Alfyn hums in acknowledgement, massaging the palm of his hand.

“You don’t have to,” he says with a chuckle, and Therion wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, the corners of his lips curving slightly upwards. Suddenly, Alfyn stops. “...oh? Is that a smile?”

“N-no,” and Therion immediately looks away, but Alfyn is beaming at him.

“Oh, sacred flame, it is! Therion’s smiling! I can’t believe I got you to—”

Therion lets out a slightly irritated  _ tsk _ and suddenly pulls himself back up, throwing an arm around Alfyn’s shoulders and pressing his lips against the apothecary’s, hesitating for a second before Alfyn squeezes Therion’s hand with one hand and braces himself against the floor with the other, deepening it and smiling against Therion’s lips as the thief clambers onto his lap, all pastel pleasantness and flowers in the sun.

 

He pulls away a moment later, still folded across Alfyn’s lap, and draws the back of his wrist against his mouth, looking away. Yet again, Alfyn’s face is painted with that ever-bright sunshine smile, and after a moment, he speaks.

“That’s certainly a way to answer an ‘I love you’.”

“You certainly reciprocated, too, and it wasn’t half bad.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be.”

 

Alfyn pauses and then traces the pad of his thumb across Therion’s cheek, hesitating when he reaches the wave of hair that falls over the left side of his face. Therion gives him a single, slow nod, and Alfyn brushes Therion’s hair out of the way, gently running his thumb over the silvery line extending from his forehead almost all the way down to his jaw. Therion shuts his eyes and bites his lip, waiting for the inevitable release of contact, but instead he feels Alfyn’s hand rotate, the apothecary drying off what’s left of Therion’s tears with the back of his hand.

“Alfyn, you don’t need to—”

“Please,” Alfyn murmurs, and Therion’s eyes flick open to yet again meet Alfyn’s, which gaze at him with a mixture of pillow-soft concern and steely anger for whoever did this to him. “Please let me do this for you.”

Therion doesn’t say anything, just closes his mouth, and Alfyn must catch the way Therion’s gaze flickers over his face, because he answers Therion’s unspoken question without even missing a beat.

“I don’t know a lot about your past—or even Miguel’s, or who that Darius fellah is—but whoever hurt you like this...whoever they are, they’re the ones who ain’t worth savin’, not you, and I just wish someone had been around back then to provide some kind of solace for you.” He cups the left side of the thief’s face, then, and Therion notices that for once, Alfyn’s eyes are glazed with sadness. Therion places a hand over Alfyn’s and gives him another kiss, swift and butterfly-light, and when he pulls away, he offers Alfyn a quick smile, which Alfyn returns without hesitation, sunshiney and full and effortless.

 

Still, guilt eats at him. Everything lines up—the green, for Alfyn and Darius; the purple, for him and Miguel—

—the thievery—

—and he can’t help but feel guilty over it, and Alfyn catches it—the flicker of uncertainty that crosses his face, so Alfyn kisses him again, brushing Therion’s hair out of his face and behind his ear.

“You’re not Miguel,” Alfyn whispers, “and you’re not Darius, and, hell, once you get all this done for those noble folks, you could even stop bein’ a thief if you wanted to. You’re not Miguel.”

“...then you won’t leave?” Therion asks, and he hates how small his voice sounds, how weak and childish and needy and  _ vulnerable _ he sounds—the same tone he used with Darius, when they met and when they worked together and when he  begged him not to throw him off the cliff—but unlike Darius, Alfyn doesn’t scoff or tell him to harden himself, he just shakes his head and takes Therion’s hand in his again, with a tenderness and warmth that Therion cannot remember ever having felt before.

“No, I won’t leave. You have my word, and apothecaries don’t go back on their word.”

Therion bites his lip. “...what about when this is all over, then?”

Alfyn pauses and looks down, hands still around Therion’s.

 

Then, he smiles.

 

“Come back to Clearbrook with me.”

“What?”

“Er, apologies if this’s too forward, but—you don’t have any place to return to, right? Come home with me. You’ll love Clearbrook! A beautiful river runnin’ right through it, green fields as far as the eye can see...you’ll love it, I know you will.” He offers Therion another smile. “Come home with me.”

Therion pauses, thinking. In truth, there’s nothing he would love more than to return to Clearbrook with Alfyn—to spend the rest of his life in peace, in warmth, in health, to just live in a state of eternal succor—green that he never needs to fear, never needs to run away from, but...

“I know it’s hard for you to trust people, and probably even harder for you to just...settle down, but promise you’ll give it some thought. I’d love to have you,” Alfyn says, and Therion nods.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and Alfyn squeezes his hand.

 

(and Therion loves him.)

 

Alfyn hugs him, and Therion is enveloped by that florally scent—herbs and tinctures, home, but not quite—

—maybe  _ really _ home, one day—

—and Therion traces his hand over his scar, that same scar, but green is green, not olive, and Alfyn is here, not Darius, and he is not Miguel, and he loves Alfyn, and Alfyn loves him.

 

“Thinkin’ about something?” Alfyn asks, pulling away and sitting back. Therion nods.

“Yeah. Spend the night with me, medicine man.”

“H-hey now—”

“Not like  _ doing _ anything,” Therion says, rolling his eyes. “Just...just one night.”

 

A beat.

 

“However many nights you want,” Alfyn finally says—with a wink for good measure, and Therion smiles.

 

Therion slips his hand in Alfyn’s later that night as they retreat to Therion’s room following a quick goodnight to Cyrus and Olberic; Alfyn, in turn, laces his fingers through Therion’s, wrapping their hands tightly together.

 

“Hey, Alfyn.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

A smile.

"I love you, too."

 

-

 

At journey’s end, Therion returns to Clearbrook by Alfyn’s side; he smells the flowers, sees the tumbling river and endless green fields, and with Alfyn’s arm thrown around him, he knows—

—finally, he is home, and it is green.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was highkey inspired by tuna's 8path art ;;v;; their work is so incredible omg big inspiration mood
> 
> thank you so much for reading!!


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